“Aye, ye are the right and proper Laird of Greenock. I will go to my grave swearing it. But I dinna wish for that grave to be on English soil. I canna travel south from here.”
Hamish reeled. Never before had Siegfried shown fear such as this.
Aye. Fear.
He baulked at labelling it cowardice.
To give himself time, he walked to the window at the other side of the fireplace and slowly opened the shutters until he was obliged to shield his eyes from the incoming burst of winter sunlight.
Sunlight which illuminated the weary slope of Siegfried’s shoulders and the shadows around his eyes. In Hamish’s mind’s eye, Siegfried was a mighty warrior, with a steady stance and a sword-arm made of steel. But in this vision, Hamish was but a wee lad, and Siegfried some twenty summers younger than in real life.
He sighed, forcing himself to let go of bitterness and regret. “I willna ask aught of ye that ye dinna give willingly.”
“I will return to the highlands and seek out those loyal to the McIvor clan in the valleys and villages around Greenock.”
Hamish could not hide his surprise. He pursed his lips. “Ye expect me to return, aye?”
Siegfried strode over and clasped his arm. “I dinna expect it. I am counting upon it.”
Then he does not doubt me.
Hamish looked beyond his friend to the shadowy hall beyond, hoping for a glimpse of chestnut curls and Brianne’s knowing smile. But the room stayed defiantly empty.
“Ye are yer father’s son,” Siegfried continued. “The same man that led us to victory against the traitor, Donald. Even though those odds were stacked against ye.”
It was the battle he never allowed himself to relive. When he had to choose between fighting beside his father or his sister. His father was an old man by then, plagued by weakness after two years residing in a cave. His sister was young and strong; one of their most valiant warriors.
Brianne had fallen at the last. Their father had survived the battle, but died of a fever some months later, soon followed by their mother.
Hamish and Elena were all that remained of the once mighty McIvor clan.
Hamish brought himself back from the past and clasped Siegfried’s arm in return. For a moment they stood together, bonded and bathed in sunlight. Hamish said, “We will raise a toast together, ye and I, in the old keep at Greenock.”
“Looking out over yer mother’s gardens,” Siegfried nodded. “We will, lad.” His expression tightened as he dropped his arm. “So long as ye dinna allow yerself to be distracted.”
“Distracted?” Hamish was taken aback, but he stayed calm and raised his eyebrows enquiringly. “How so?”
“I am speaking outta turn. I ken so. But I believe ye have taken a liking to the Lady.” Siegfried jerked his head toward the upper floor. “Mayhap more than a liking, aye?”
Hamish’s ready denial died on his lips.
Why should I lie?
“’Tis nay distraction, Siegfried. We need the Lady’s help.”
“But ye dinna need to share her bed.” Siegfried spoke plainly. “And ye dinna need to invite her into yer heart.”
Siegfried flattened his palm against Hamish’s chest, leaving the younger man too surprised to respond.
Are my feelings for her so obvious?
He did not query how Siegfried had discerned the events of last night. His old ally knew Hamish to be a man of flesh and blood.
But the rest…
“Ye speak of love, Siegfried,” he said, once he could manage it. “’Tis a bold claim.”
“I speak as I find.” The Seneschal poked at the fire and avoided looking in his direction.
